Schism
by Payce D. Elui
Summary: Lucy kept her end of the deal. After attaining the information he was sent after so long ago, Clay Kaczmarak is a free man. Figuratively.
1. Chapter 1: The Beating of Wings

**Author's Note: **I think I love Clay Kaczmarek almost as much as I love Altair. AC3 why must you do this to me. Halp. I have a plan! This is one of the many go-to projects I have when I get a bit frustrated with my current monster of a main-fic. Updates will be sporadic. Hopefully you won't find my forage into the AC fandom as pathetic as I do :)

**Summary: **Lucy kept her end of the deal. After attaining the information he was sent after so long ago, Clay Kaczmarak is a free man. Figuratively.

WARNINGS: this fanfic is majorly AU, it will include screwing about with the Assassin's Creed timeline and character histories, as well as contain spoilers for Assassin's Creed 1, 2, 3, Brotherhood, and Revelations. And any media relating to Subject 16, also- such as additional DLC like The Lost Archives. Rated T for violence, suggestive themes, and mild use of strong language.

**Disclaimer:** _'Assassin's Creed' and related spin-off titles_ _are the property of Ubisoft and other associated parties. I claim no ownership of the franchise, characters or settings, nor am I affiliated with the above parties in any way. The following is a fan-work, written for my amusement, and not for material or monetary gain. Please support the official releases. (I don't own this)._

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**Assassin's Creed: Schism**

**Chapter 1: The Beating of Wings**

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**|| August 07 2011, 23:53:18**

**|| Abstergo Industries, Turin: Italy**

In the end, it wasn't the alarms that broke him from his haze. No, what Abstergo got up to had ceased to be his main priority a long time ago. He was forgotten. No longer important. Story of his life, really. He thought life after his induction into the order would be different. Unfortunately for him, the tides had changed and the Templars were content to let him rot in his confined cell of a 'personal room' while they tracked down their latest interests and carried on plotting world domination via Pieces of Eden.

Clay Kaczmarek's hand smudged one of the symbols he'd been daubing on the wall behind his bed as he snickered. He wouldn't put it past that prick Vidic to have some sort of pet- preferably a white cat- he'd stroke while looking over a mounted golden globe. The bastard certainly held delusions of grandeur, no matter how much he played it up for the sake of the 'greater good'. Well, Clay couldn't help him there. He'd been a stepping stone. They'd found someone new.

Desmond Miles.

William Miles' son. William 'Bill' Miles: the man who had been the main driving force behind Clay's incarceration at Templar stronghold, Abstergo Industries. Not that Bill had forcibly tied the manacles around Clay's wrists and dragged him into his current predicament. No, by that point, Clay had idolised him so much that any chance of gaining his approval had had him rushing to do anything he physically could.

_Prove yourself, novice, and you will be one of us._

Yeah, right.

While it was tempting to let the progeny of William Miles suffer the same way he himself had- there was something poetic in that, and the thought sent him into a short fit of giggles- he had another mission that would not allow it. Juno's mission. More important than anything William Miles had said, that was for sure. Juno's mission had gathered the threads of Clay**Mikael**_Lily__**Darim**_MariaA**d**_**a**__m_**Clay**'s undone mind together into a final coherent thought. _Help. Desmond._

"I have to help Desmond."

And when he'd done all he could, he would sleep. Clay's mission was almost complete. He'd already contaminated Abstergo's Animus- if they ever got their hands on Desmond- if Desmond hadn't hidden well enough, Clay's AI would take care of him. All that was left was the warnings. His... Masterpiece. They'd scrubbed it off the wall every time thus far, the fuckers. They didn't understand. The right person would, though. No, his message would not be going anywhere again. Too much blood this time. Enough blood left a mark that wouldn't come off no matter how hard they scrubbed. And he'd used enough blood. His knees were already struggling to hold him straight, and dark was creeping in on the edges of his vision.

The door to his room slid open with a quiet hiss. _Clack-clack-clack-clack_, rapidly in succession. A woman, by the sounds of it. Unless Vidic or his pet Cross had taken to wearing heels. He giggled again.

"_Jesus,_ Clay!"

He ignored her, fingers reaching down to tear through the sinew and fatty tissue under the ruptured skin of his right arm, smearing them in a thick layer of fresh blood. He was almost done. It didn't matter if she was here now. They could stop him, but the message would get through. They couldn't change anything.

"Clay!"

She shouldn't have been able to pull him off balance, small as she was, but the tug on his shoulder sent him tumbling to the floor.

"Well, well," he slurred, looking up and trying to push himself up onto his elbows. "If it isn't the Judas to my 'Jesus'. H-How's it hanging, _Luuuce?_"

"No. No, no. Get _up_. Damnit, Clay! We don't have time for this." She had tucked the gun she was holding back into her waistband, and was hastily wrapping something around his arms, but the blood was easily soaking though. Not for the first time, he thought he saw honest regret and not just a little fear cross her features. Poor little lamb caught up in a power struggle so much bigger than she was. A shame. She had to know it was hopeless.

A dull roar was filling his ears, drowning out the cacophony of shouts that had joined the alarms streaming through the building.

The door swished open once again, and Clay's head hit the floor. Any strength he had left was spooling out on to the floor around him, staining him pale.

Lucy turned, eyes wide-


	2. Chapter 2 - Lost in Communication

**Disclaimer:** _'Assassin's Creed' and related spin-off titles_ _are the property of Ubisoft and other associated parties. I claim no ownership of the franchise, characters or settings, nor am I affiliated with the above parties in any way. The following is a fan-work, written for my amusement, and not for material or monetary gain. Please support the official releases. (I don't own this)._

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**Assassin's Creed: Schism**

**Chapter 2: Lost in Communication**

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**From: James Williams**

**Date: August 08 2011**

**To: Alan Rikkin; Warren Vidic**

**Subject: Subject 16**

**Attach: Clay Kaczmarek Medic. Notes Copy1**

To summarise: Subject 16 is physically stable for the time being, but has lost a lot of blood. He'll be kept under close watch around the clock, and is expected to regain consciousness sometime in the next week. Whether he'll ever regain full control of his right arm again is between him and his physiotherapist.

For future reference, keep writing utensils away from the mentally unstable. How he carved himself up so well with a goddamn pen is beyond me...

I'll let you know if there are any drastic changes to his condition.

- James

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**From: Alan Rikkin**

**Date: August 08 2011**

**To: Warren Vidic**

**Subject: Lucy Stillman **

So it was just coincidence that the cameras in the Turin research facility happened to shut down at the same time Assassins infiltrated the building and Stillman was found in our most important test subject's room? Bullshit. 16 may not be as valuable a source to us as he was two years ago but right now he's all we've got. Until Acquisitions decide to make use of all the funding that's being poured into them, of course.

Face it, Warren, it's looking more and more as if Lucy Stillman isn't ours. You failed. I'm starting to think Cross was your one and only success, though even that's debatable. A pity. The only reason Stillman's still alive right now is because of you, and even your word won't be enough to save her from above if the recent leaks on the pharmaceuticals get traced back to her.

It's only a matter of time, Warren.

You fix this or I will.

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**From: Warren Vidic**

**Date: August 13 2011**

**To: Alan Rikkin**

**Subject: Lucy Stillman **

**Attach: Stillman SP-117-4.0 Analysis**

satisfied?

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**From: James Williams**

**Date: August 13 2011**

**To: Alan Rikkin; Warren Vidic**

**Subject: Subject 16**

Subject 16 is awake and as jolly as we remember him. I had him sedated and restrained when he attacked a nurse and tried to rip into his arm again. It'll take a while for it to heal- doubly as a much if he keeps agitating the wound, but unless we keep him in the same state as he's in now, there's not much more we can do for him.

He's as ready for reinsertion into the Animus project as he'll ever be. Though you might want to think about inducing a coma and letting him sleep his way through the rest of. He'd be more useful to you that way.

- James

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**From: Alan Rikkin**

**Date: August 13 2011**

**To: Warren Vidic**

**Subject: Lucy Stillman **

Stillman coming through as 'innocent' in interrogation where SP-117-4.0 was used. Impressive. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe.

SP-117-4.0 is hardly infallible. It may be an improvement on the 'truth serum' the KGB came up with, but we know it can be resisted. Lucy Stillman was brought up as an Assassin. Despite what we think of their kind, we know she's not completely weak of mind.

Keep an eye on her, Warren. You'd do well to remember that it's not just her neck on the line here.

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**From: Administration**

**Date: August 15 2011**

**To: Alan Rikkin; Warren Vidic**

**Subject: Relocation **

**Attach: Quicklist**

Due to the recent breech in security at the Turin research lab, it has been decided that all remaining researchers, test subjects and volunteers related to the Animus project will be relocated to the facilities in Washington over the course of the next two weeks. Though not as large as facilities in Turin, no expense has been spared to ensure that you'll be just as comfortable there as you were here.

We apologise for the short notice and any inconvenience that this may cause. We at Abstergo Industries believe your safety to be paramount. If you have any problems with these arrangements, feel free to discuss it with our HR department; contact details are attached.

Thank you for your cooperation.


	3. Chapter 3 - His Legacy

**Disclaimer:** _'Assassin's Creed' and related spin-off titles_ _are the property of Ubisoft and other associated parties. I claim no ownership of the franchise, characters or settings, nor am I affiliated with the above parties in any way. The following is a fan-work, written for my amusement, and not for material or monetary gain. Please support the official releases. (I don't own this)._

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**Assassin's Creed: Schism**

**Chapter 3: His Legacy**

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**|| August 19 2011, 01:07:11**

**|| Bad Weather Bar, Brooklyn: New York**

It was just Desmond's luck to be given the duty to clear the bar out of people who'd had a little too much on a Friday night. Not that he had much luck, ever. Sam didn't know about that; he'd seen Desmond get lucky more than a few times in the time he'd known him. So, ignoring any grumbling coming from the direction of the resident enigma of the workforce, Sam had sent him out with a pat on the back and a thumbs up. He'd pulled the short straw, after all. And it wasn't as if Desmond Milano didn't know how to handle himself, Sam knew that much.

Desmond didn't speak about himself much, kept himself to himself, mostly, but whatever crazy-ass cult it was that he'd been involved with as a child; it had taught him some useful things before he'd freed himself from their clutches. Good kid, that Desmond. Been through a lot, from what Sam could tell, but he was good kid. For the nine years they'd worked together, they'd never had a problem.

Sam watched the exchange from the corner of his eye as he carried on pulling drinks. The loud music was making the liquid shudder in the glass. Just the way he liked it, really.

"Hey," he heard Desmond call over the noise. "Buddy. I think you've had enough to drink there. How about it you give it a rest for the night, yeah?"

"Ain't NObody tell me I'VE had enough'ta drink you-"

Great. An angry drunk. Sam nodded David in Desmond's direction... just in case. It didn't look like he would have too much of a problem; he'd wrestled the drink (a Shirly Templar, Desmond's own creation, incidentally) from the man's trembling hands easily enough.

"Come on, man. Time to go."

Unfortunately, it only went downhill from there.

A broken glass, a cut across the face and ten minutes later, Desmond was on his way to the emergency room in the backseat of a car with one of the girls from work.

"I could have driven there myself, you know."

"You think driving a motorcycle around Brooklyn when you have a head wound is a good idea? Ok, Desmond."

"It's justa scratch, Hannah."

"So you've been saying for the last ten minutes. All right, Desmond, I get it. Geez. Put the towel back on your face! You're bleeding all over my car!"

"But-"

"Sam said to take you to the emergency room, so I'm taking you to the emergency room. Seriously, shut the hell up. It may be a scratch, but it's a nasty looking one, you might even need stitches."

Any more complaints ready to spill forth were silenced by am irritable look as the car swerved around a corner. She pulled up to the hospital a few minutes later, and Desmond let himself out. He shook his head when she made to follow him out. "I don't need you to hold my hand, you know."

She grimaced as blood flecked the window. "You sure? You won't need help getting home or anything?"

"Nah, I can sort it. Thanks."

"Ah... if you're sure, then. Ok? Call and let me know how it goes, ok? I'm working til 4, anyway, so it's not like I'll be asleep. I'll make sure your bike is locked up, all right?"

"Got ya. Will do. Thanks."

She gave him a last worried look before settling on a small smile and driving off.

Desmond sighed. His dad had been right, after all. He had ended up in hospital because of a Templar. Granted it had been a Shirley Templar and not a violent cultist...

He rolled his eyes. It was just his luck to get glassed in the face with a drink of his own creation. His luck had probably hit an all time low. There was no way it could get any worse than now. He glared up at the medical centre looming up ahead, pushing any lingering thoughts of his distanced family aside. The building was stark white, glowing against the dark of the night. Fucking hospitals.

He pulled the towel away from his face, blood dripping down his chin and onto his white hoodie.

Stitches. Right.


End file.
